


A Place in Valhalla

by Lady_Paper_Writerson



Category: DCU (Comics), Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Comfort/Angst, Gen, M/M, Near Death Experiences, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Sickfic, Vikings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:46:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23993992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Paper_Writerson/pseuds/Lady_Paper_Writerson
Summary: The most fierce warriors of the mankind are meant to die gloriously in battle and rise in Valhalla.Those that can't make it to a battle, though...
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson, Slade Wilson & Odin
Comments: 8
Kudos: 104





	A Place in Valhalla

**Author's Note:**

  * For [firefright](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firefright/gifts).
  * Inspired by [As in the Edda](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23857498) by [firefright](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firefright/pseuds/firefright). 



> A gift for firefright, for obvious reasons, as well as for the rest of the SladeRobin discord chat. XD
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy!~
> 
> Inspired by firefright's crazy fun fic, which you should probably read first before diving in, just to know exactly why a certain _someone_ is pissed. XD

Slade stirs beneath the blankets at the sudden sound of heavy footsteps echoing over the howling of the wind, right outside the cave’s entrance. He tenses, fingers curling around the handle of his sword (kept beside him at all times, even under the covers) until the elk hide blocking the entrance is lifted.

Dick enters, carrying an armful of twigs and broken branches, grumpily murmuring curses under his breath, and his grip on the Deathstroke immediately relaxes. The kid dumps the wood by the fire, get to dry a little bit before used. “Ragnarok’s approaching out there,” he huffs, removing his hood and the furry scarf covering his neck and lower face.

Slade gives a low rumble over the burning sensation burdening chest. Watches the kid taking off his heavy, blue-grey, furry cloak before approaching to where he rests and laying it down on the ground, right beside the makeshift bed where Slade lies. Snowflakes are sparkling in his messy hair, slowly melting down. He takes a seat and crosses his legs, getting comfortable, even though worry’s visible in his gaze behind the forced, faint smile slightly lifting the corners of his lips.

“Will you let me check your fever?”

He frowns, knitting his brows. Coughs a bit. “Don’t worry, it doesn’t go anywhere,” he sharply responds.

Dick takes a breath, pouting just a bit at his stubbornness. “Are you feeling any better?”

Slade rolls his sore eye to sideways glance at him, quite peevishly.

No. No, he doesn’t, and the damn brat should know better than to ask. His head’s heavier than he’s ever felt it in a whole lifetime. Forehead and chest burning up. All muscles aching. Shivers and chills making him shudder, even under this pile of blankets laying above him. Add to that this disgusting feeling of sheer weakness and vulnerability and you get one hellish combination.

Dick takes a long breath, briefly shutting his eyes. “Fine. Suit yourself.”

Slade slightly shifts under the covers. “Before you go to sleep, make sure you’ve got everything prepared. We’re leaving.”

Dick winces. “Slade…”

“Tomorrow morning.”

The kid blinks. Expressionless. “There’s a snowstorm outside,” he says blankly, as if talking to a child.

“Are the horses intact?”

Dick sighs heavily, bringing a hand up to rub at his own forehead. “You can’t travel like this, Slade. You’ll die on the road,” he says with the same casual, defeated boredom Slade’s heard so much in William's statements every time he stubbornly insisted on something seemingly irrational.

“Would be a step up from dying stuck up in this damn hole,” he says stiffly.

Dick almost jolts, trying to hide his upset at the statement behind a net of anger. “Oh, so that’s what this is about. Valhalla. Right. We’re off to find a battle, then. And mind you tell me, even if we do stumble upon one, how exactly are you going to fight? Can you even lift your sword?”

“Keep up in that tone and you might find out,” Slade growls at him.

Dick’s brow arches. “Oh. Is that so. Alright,” he scoffs, climbing to his feet once more and crossing arms over his chest. “Come on, then. Get up, draw your beloved sword. Let’s see how well that goes.”

Slade’s stare is firing daggers at him, but he speaks no words, nor does he move at all. After a year and a half, Dick’s gotten used to pretty much all of his intimidation tactics. In other words, he’s stopped taking his shit for a while now, and it’s something that Slade finds both infuriating and utterly exciting at the same time.

Kid exhales, shaking his head and turning his back on him. He proceeds to add more wood to the fire and hang their small cauldron over the flames.

“And you know, for the record, if we hadn’t pulled out that shameless act of yours in the last village, we’d have been able to get back there in time before the storm, so that your ass could lie on an actual bed and get some remedies from someone that knows better than ourselves!” he snaps at him at some point, mid-way through finishing with the fish soup he’s making.

When he sits up (pretending the helping hand Dick offers doesn’t exist) and takes the bowl he’s offered, Slade doesn’t expect much. As good as he is at fishing (being the one to have provided them with this considerably large haddock a few days prior), Dick’s cooking abilities definitely don’t match that -or any of all the many other exceptional skills he absolutely possesses. However, and even though his hopes are low, in the end, the soup is quite decent. After all, his stomach’s tight, and his appetite long gone. He swallows only what he knows is absolutely necessary before pushing the bowl back at Dick to reach for his flask of water instead.

Dick sits and eats quietly beside him, despite the tension floating between them. He only leaves to save the rest of the soup in their one goatskin flask not containing water and clean the cauldron and their bowls. After he has once more fixed the fire properly, he returns with a bowl of lukewarm water and a couple of pieces of woolen fabric to be used as compresses.

Slade might be too proud and stubborn to accept help, but he’d be a fool to also reject Dick’s obvious interest on his well-being. The compresses slightly soothing his burning forehead aren’t half bad. 

“You can’t just… die,” the kid murmurs after a lifetime of silence.

It’s an almost childish statement, uncharacteristic for Dick. And, in all its childish naivete, it could have been genuinely cute if it wasn’t for that deeply rooted doubt in his words. The unmistakable fear carving every line of his face.

Slade starts coughing anew. Annoyingly. For quite a while. “Not if I have a word in it,” he grumbles afterwards.

Does he, though?

A fair question.

At least he’s made sure Dick knows what to do, in case… it happens. He’s given him instructions -one of the first things he did when he first got him. Scatter his ashes in the sea. The Deathstroke goes to his daughter. His steel and silver horned helmet, to his son. His armor to William. The golden ring hanged by the small chain around his neck, to Adeline -it has her name engraved, after all. And the kid keeps everything else.

“Tomorrow. No matter what, at least _you_ are leaving.”

Dick visibly shudders, failing in all his effort to remain perfectly still. His eyes go wide for two seconds, and then he just blinks, faster than the normal. “You’d leave me up here, in the hills? On my own?” he asks, voice a bit hoarse. “Not even _you_ are such an asshole.”

Slade chuckles, feeling as bold as to raise a hand out of the blankets and trace the line of Dick’s jaw with his fingers. “We both know that I am, kid.”

Dick swallows harshly. Presumably choosing this moment to take the fabric off Slade's forehead, sinking it back into the basin to replace it with another so that he’s able to take his eyes off. Lowering his head to blink some more tears away.

“Why the long face?” Slade smiles. “Don’t you want to go back to your people?”

“I—” Dick falters. Wets his lips and swallows again. “Not like this,” he admits in a low voice.

Slade hums thoughtfully, smirking just a little. He feels… lethargic. It’s actually quite surprising that at this point he’s managed to keep his eye open for such an astoundingly long amount of time, since, during the past two days, he’s been spending much more time asleep than awake.

Dick sees that he’s drifting off, and simply mutters, “I’ll wake you up in the morning.”

It’s an agonized, yet firm statement, one that clearly tolerates no objections. His eyes are back to life when he makes it. Two blue, burning sapphires. His hand squeezes Slade’s tightly, waiting for affirmation.

Perhaps Slade really _is_ as much of an asshole as to die on the kid sometime tonight, but apparently, he can’t bring himself to deny what is asked from him in that moment, with those eyes looking directly at him.

“In the morning then, kid.”

Dick smiles a bit. Shakily, but still. It’s a pretty picture.

Apparently, the gates of Valhalla won’t welcome him in, but even so… this isn’t the worst ending ever befallen on a man.

* * *

Slade _does_ wake up again. It’s sometime in the middle of the night, with a new wave of cough. Thankfully milder in intensity than before, albeit blocking his throat in nearly suffocating levels.

Dick, having finally embraced his exhaustion, has fallen asleep tucked beside him, curled up in his furry cloak, forehead subtly touching Slade’s shoulder. Was about time, honestly. Kid hasn’t slept properly in three days, being constantly alert over him and merely dozing for only a few hours at a time. Stupid of him, though, choosing to do it _this_ close. Last thing Slade wants is for the kid to get his fever.

(not to imply that it isn’t utterly pleasing, having the boy in such proximity.)

There’s no way for him to reach for the flask he craves for without shaking Dick at least one bit in the process. Not to mention that all his muscles feel locked, and the prospect of using them in that specific moment is completely nightmarish. It wouldn’t do much difference, but even so, he does wish he could get the damn water. In this very moment, he needs it down his raw, tortured throat, even though he’s pretty certain, despite the indirect promise he made earlier, that he won’t be seeing another day rising.

Far from the first time he disappoints someone he cares about.

Wind’s gone absolutely frenzy outside, threatening to tear the hide at the entrance and take it away once and for good, despite this small cave being in a relatively suntrap, secluded spot. Slade takes a breath, letting freezing air slide down his lungs that currently feel like blocks of steel placed upon his chest. It does nothing to relieve the unforgiving, feverish heat. It enhances it, really.

Slade’s eye fixes upon the roof of the cave. Their fire’s almost out, and the grim, eerie shadows formed by the remaining flames are slowly swaying in a macabre dance of doom.

For some reason, the sight captivates him for quite a while. So much that it doesn’t instantly register to him, how the wind has suddenly stopped screaming right outside their door, growing distant, as if it’s still miles away. And just as he slowly realizes the cackling of the fire’s pretty much the only sound reaching his ears… there comes the slow rattling of a bird. Followed instantly by a sharp, gurgling croak.

He lowers his eye, and at the feet of the bed, standing almost perfectly still over the blankets, is a jet-black raven. Its eyes, perfect, black beads of clear, pure glass, starring back at him, right into his soul.

A raven in a snowstorm.

Wonderful. Now he’s hallucinating as well.

He waits for it to go away. Even tries to blink it off. Twice.

Nothing. The raven just stands there, looking up at him, talons tapping lightly over the covers. It’s crooking its head on one side, as if it’s curious. Or amused.

It’s instinct more than anything else that has him slowly turning his head to the direction of the fire. Only for his eye to meet up with… another eye.

One single eye.

A man, sitting on the log by the dying fire. A second raven standing over his shoulder. Tall. Broad. His garments, from the leather boots to his heavy coat, and up to the wide-brimmed hat are darker than the most distant depths of the night. Big, strong, calloused hands. Grey hair loose, flanking at his neck. Grey, long beard, reaching down to his sternum. A single, piercing, grey eye. Grey, like the sky on the coldest winter's day. The right socket vacant -a black hole into nothingness.

No. Not _just_ a man.

He knows he should have been shocked. Swimming between awe and fear, even if this really is a fever dream, but somehow, he’s oddly calm inside. Somehow, this feels… _natural._

“Am I dead?” he rasps.

The Allfather studies him, before he asks, “Do you feel dead?”

Slade grunts. “I don’t know what being dead feels like, but… this here is quite _annoying.”_

“Well, Deathstroke,” the god says quietly, “it will feel much worse when you’re in Hel.”

As much as hearing the paramount god calling him by his battle name, the name given to him by his enemies to match his magnificent sword’s fills him with shameless pride… that second part doesn’t fail to steal all impressions here.

“Was it worth it? Deceiving all those people -common villagers, really. Committing blasphemy… just to amuse yourself? Losing Valhalla over a few feasts and a bed for the night?”

Oh. _That’s_ what this is about.

“If we’re going to be… entirely fair here,” Slade remarks, “I never claimed I actually was who they believed me to be.”

The god rumbles. “You know what you did, child,” he drawls. “So. Answer me. Was it worth it?”

Slade grits his teeth, and dares (because, of course he does). “I can’t know that.”

Here they are, now. The most powerful being in existence stands before him, lifting a damn brow.

It is as thrilling as is -by his own words- _amusing._

“People… tell stories. Myths. And people… _lie._ No one has ever been there and returned. No one ever saw,” Slade says. “So, now… you, that you rule this place… _you_ tell me… what do you have in Valhalla… that would interest me?”

Instead of the furious outburst that would make the world crumble around them, sending him to Hel a few hours earlier, like he would normally expect… he’s instead faced the faintest glimpse of a smirk.

“I have your son.”

The raven on the god’s shoulder gives a sharp cluck. In affirmation, it seems.

A hand’s squeezing Slade’s heart with an iron grip. “It was his heart that killed him. A poison inside him,” he says under his breath.

The god keeps watching him, calmly. “He died _fighting._ It was Sigrún that brought him to me.”

Slade exhales sharply. Shifts. The covers rustling as he tries to support himself on one elbow.

Grant. Grant in Valhalla, among the gods, beside the Allfather.

“Don’t you want to see him again?” he keeps _teasing_ him. “Fight side by side with him when Ragnarok arrives?”

Grant. To see _Grant_ again. In Valhalla. To fight side by side with him.

Slade is a mercenary. Which means, he knows pretty damn well when someone’s trying to buy him. And, admittedly, no one’s ever given him a better offer.

“You _do_ want me up there, then… when Ragnarok comes,” is all he can utter without showing off too much of emotion (as if the god doesn’t know _exactly_ what he’s caused).

A small wave of his head. “Do you think it happens a lot? Me, descending to Midgard to just remind a mortal that he should know better?”

It goes quiet again. Very, very quiet.

Allfather rises, drawing his staff up with him. Huge. Intimidating. The raven flies off the top of the blankets to end up occupying his other shoulder as he takes two soundless steps forward, coming to stand above him. “No more of that, Slade,” he says roughly. “If you please.”

“And if I don’t?”

Had he been awake, Dick would have most definitely kicked him on his left hip, where the brat knows by now Slade’s got that old wound still torturing him from time to time.

The god’s eye darkens, despite his expression seemingly remaining docile, and then, unexpectedly, it moves over Dick. “First, I shall take this magnificent boy you are so enamored with. Then, your one remaining son. Your gorgeous daughter. Your beloved friend, and your fearsome wife -oh, Adeline. What a Valkyrie she will make. Some of them I might allow into Valhalla -have them join your firstborn. And only once there’s nothing left for you in Midgard anymore… I’ll send another fever after you, to take you down to Hel. Stand assured that _the least_ hostile face you will come across there will be none other than your father’s.”

Slade clenches his jaw, huffing like a wild boar.

And the Allfather grins.

“Consider this _discipline,_ child.”

Both of the ravens gronk, spreading their wings and flying out of the cave. _He_ turns his back slowly. Hovers by the feebly structured hearth for a moment, before he leans forward, picks up the smallest twig and throws it on the almost completely burned-out pile.

Rich, bright orange flames immediately erupt, rising much higher than before.

“Until that day, Deathstroke.”

The god’s eye crosses with Slade’s one last time before the hide’s lifted, and he makes his exit.

Outside, two moments later, the snowstorm suddenly resumes once again.

* * *

Next time his eye opens, he feels exhausted, and soaked in sweat, as if he’s bathed in it.

But nothing else.

Light’s coming from outside -it’s morning, and it must have been for some time now. He harks, trying to listen to… anything, really, and soon realizes that there’s nothing to hear; storm’s over. Hide’s in place at the entrance. All he can detect is the cackling of the fire (still burning, as strong and bright as the moment of _his_ exit) and the soft whicker of the horses coming from outside, from the smaller natural nook on the rocks nearby, where Dick’s settled them in.

Speaking of the kid, he’s still asleep beside him, now more or less curled up against him over the upper blankets. Slade runs a hand through his hair, brushing back the messy black strands falling over his forehead before he pushes the covers aside and sits up slowly, drawing the deepest breath inside.

He feels nothing. Meaning, nothing _negative._

He gets on his feet, careful not to startle the kid awake. Grabs at the flask and drains it off the remaining water, before he does the same with Dick’s, moving on to the rest of their aquatic supplies. Once he’s relieved, he proceeds to the goatskin flask in which Dick’s saved the soup and hungrily consumes a (finally) reasonable portion, swallowing down a couple of rusks with it. He then cleans himself with a cloth, changing trousers and tunic afterwards. Puts on his boots and wraps another hide around himself to eventually step out of their den to hang the clothes somewhere to ventilate.

The weather is mild, taking into consideration the previous three days. There’s no wind, merely a cold, yet soft winter breeze.

He’s settled the clothes over some stray branches and has just taken his cock out to take a piss, when the panicked shouts erupt from the cave.

“Slade?! _Slade!”_

“Out here, kid,” he shouts back, sighing in relief as the hot stream is released.

Not a moment later, Dick jumps out of the cave, still on his tunic and simple furry vest, no cloak whatsoever. There isn’t a single evidence of color on his pretty face, currently occupied by a mask of utter panic and sheer agony.

Slade tuts. “You’ll freeze like that.”

“Are you crazy?” Dick screams at him, approaching fast. “Why the hell did you get up, why did you… why…”

Kid loses his words once he’s beside him, jaw dropping as he’s looking him up and down. Slade can’t but chuckle at his purely shocked expression. “It’s just the two of us here kid, don’t pretend like it’s the first time you’re seeing it,” he jokes, tucking his cock back in his trousers.

Dick, who, on a different occasion would have blushed wildly, now simply keeps looking at him up and down, bright blue eyes going frantic. “You… you’re… but you were…”

Slade grins. “I told you we’d be leaving in the morning, didn’t I?” he hums, before shaking his head in disapproval. “And you didn’t even prepare our stuff!”

Dick’s eyes are wider than he’s ever witnessed them before. “Are you… you’re alright?” he whispers in disbelief.

Slade opens his hands, grin only widening. “Do I _not_ look alright?”

The kid stares at him incredulously. “What… how on… What happened?!” he exclaims.

Slade clears his throat, crossing arms over his chest. “Well, if you must know, Dick, last night, after you fell asleep, Odin himself came by. Yes. Exactly as you hear it. We had a little talk, mostly about a job he wants me to take, and then he healed me. Revived our fire, too. You should say a prayer to him and thank him about it.”

Dick looks at him as if he’s escaped the lands of madness before he frowns and reaches out one hand to rest it upon Slade’s forehead. “Alright, no fever,” he murmurs.

“See? Told you. We made a deal.”

Dick blinks, trying to process the situation. Evidently still shaken by the shock of waking up to find him gone, and the general confusion caused by jumping off the bed like that, all he manages to utter is a quiet, slightly shaky, “You are… you’re _fine?”_

Slade takes a gentle hold of the kid’s wrist and pulls him closer, so that he can wrap his own hide around them both. “Yeah, kid. I’m fine,” he says, a tad more seriously this time. “I’m fine, and we’re going south.”

Yes. South it is. The least he can do for the kid after the scare he’s just given him, is to find him a place where he can enjoy his favourite porridge -preferably with blueberries (if there are any left from the summer), honey and buttermilk.

“You’re one monster of a man, you know that?” Dick murmurs as he allows himself to be pulled further forward, closer to him.

“Sure thing, kid,” he smiles. “Enjoy me while you can.”

**Author's Note:**

> My Tumblr: [Lady Paper Writerson's](https://ladypaperwriterson.tumblr.com/)


End file.
